Roses at the foot of my bed
All the thorns bleeding ink,
My mother weeps in the room next door
For what she has lost in the winter,
For what remained come the spring.
My bones creak and tremble within me,
The only sound that could still echo in this house
I am a wraith in this place, translucent and trembling
Heart like a casket, but empty,
A ghost of a girl remains, trapped
Inside flesh and sinew, with tragedy
Hidden in the marrow of her.

Roses at the foot of her bed.
The thorns bleeding ink.
The petals falling off.

In my dreams
I stand upon the shore
Of an oil-spill ocean
And watch whales beach themselves endlessly
Upon the tar black sand,
The tide rolls in and drags their
Bloated carcasses back into the sea
Their graves no longer lingering
Between home and a foreign world.

In my dreams, I am singing
Like a siren queen I draw the world around me
Held in a suspended breath,
Even the waves slow to hear it,
And here, standing
With a darkening sky and the beach
Turning to quicksand beneath me
All of creation is throwing itself at my feet.
This is what God must feel like.

I suppose you could say I loved him, if you were taken with such things. In the many ways there are to love a flower at near bloom, ripe for the spring but still caught in winter sleeping.
And too, for the way his voice was like fast water over river stones,
not as grating or boisterous as thunder, but I felt the tenors down in the marrow of me.
Or, if I were cliche, it would be the ever-changing nature of his eyes, and I could try to explain them,
compare them with the uncut gemstones so overused, sapphire, topaz, aquamarine.
No. Treasures they may be, but they are lifeless.
My love had the eyes of the restless sky, in all her seasons, in all her moods; midday summer or winters' waning hours,
he was the spectrum.
At the root of it though, I suppose I loved him for what could not be seen,
could not be compared,
or understood by anyone who did not love him also.
He was kind, gentle as the kissing breeze. Bashful and shy, at first.  
When he laughed, he lit up, like joy set a spark in him that glowed bright as starlight.
He tapped tunes on surfaces and you could hear the music.
He was cautious, and didn't presume, but he had a fire and passion that could engulf me, I,
I would happily burn.
He loved music and movies and when he told you about it there was not enough space in the room
to hold the excitement that radiated from him,
nor the adoration that poured from me.
He was a growing thing, he had planted his roots but still bent to the wind, and he was looking for himself in the rain.
He is still looking, and in the downpour, we search together.
Whatever is found, wherever it leads him, I will find him in the restless sky,
I will know him in the running water and the wind that holds me,
and I hope when he feels the homely warmth of the brightening sun,
he will know me also.
I hope he searches for that warmth.

There is a wild beast
Living in my ribcage
I feel her pacing the length of it
Until twilight
When her rage simmers
And I hear the soft whimpers
Of a trapped thing
I feed her scraps of my soul
Small morsels; but enough
This carnivorous queen
All tender gentleness in the night,
Restless and terrifying come dawn
When the day comes
And she is released from my bones
Cower, Eve's children
For she will devour the sun
And the darkness
And all else that remains.

I could get lost in the curve of your neck
in every freckle and every line
all sensation eclipsed by the traces
of soft fingers exploring my spine,
let me dream of your voice under moonlight
and all the secrets it tries to confine
you leave starlight falling behind you
my words unable to capture the shine,
you are cigarettes and soft music and screenplays
the blooming flower on the vine
I'm enthralled by your smile and its comfort
and a slow heartbeat mimicking mine
but namely your eyes and their ocean,
i would willing drown every time

You are my 11:11 wishes
Every shooting star
And dandelion seed.
Someone must have heard
My feverent prayers
What glittering mold did you come from
To be sculpted so well to me?
Eyes bluer than the ocean
That I have always felt flowing
In my heart, my veins
Hair black like the pitch night
That holds the stars I count
Hands, hands that radiate kindness
Seeping peace as they trace my spine
It is not fireworks when you hold me
It is the cackle of a wood fire
The familiar weight of a favourite book
The comfort of a well-worn mattress
When you hold me
I am home